


Diamonds Are Forever

by goldpolkadot



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-13 05:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11177670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldpolkadot/pseuds/goldpolkadot
Summary: Betty’s heart had sunk when the invitation to Cheryl Blossom’s bachelorette party in Las Vegas arrived in the post. Surely the only thing worse than knowing her high school nemesis was wedding her high school sweetheart was being involved in the pre-wedding celebrations?But that was before Jughead Jones and a 24-hour wedding chapel were added to the mix ...





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> An AU in which Jason Blossom's murder never happened.

_Prologue_

I woke slowly. 

My head was pounding and I felt like I was suffocating from the weight of the sheets piled on top of me. My mouth was dry and scratchy as if I’d just eaten a whole meal of cotton wool, and my stomach was ominously queasy. The light hurt.

It had been a while since I’d had a hangover like this one, but I could recognise the signs. The next few hours were going to be painful. 

Fragments of memory were beginning to flash through my mind, but I wasn’t really in the mood right now to relive last night and whatever horrifyingly embarrassing things I’d done. No, I was going to close my eyes, empty my mind and think of nothing until my stomach settled. Then once I felt I was human enough to walk on two feet I’d find some Advil and grab a Diet Coke from the minibar, force both down, and then go back to sleep with a cold compress on my forehead. 

Yes, that sounded like a plan. 

I didn’t have to meet the others for our spa day until midday, so hopefully the worst would be over by then. Until that point, though, I needed to focus on feeling human again. 

I closed my eyes and gingerly shifted in the bed so that I was on my side rather than my back. No, still uncomfortable. Keeping my eyes closed to block out that torturous light, I flipped my pillow so that my cheek was resting on the cool side. 

Better, much better. 

I took a deep breath and exhaled. Maybe I’d also venture out post-Advil and pre-spa and find some McDonalds. That always did the trick and right now I could really do with some – 

My reveries of salty, pleasantly crispy carbohydrates were interrupted by a sudden snore from the other side of the bed.

I stilled. What on earth was _that_?

Oh god. 

Please don’t tell me I took someone back to the hotel room with me last night. That was bad. Very bad. 

I don’t do one-night stands. I don’t judge girls who do; it’s just personally not for me. Afterwards I always feel so awkward and uncomfortable and guilty that it’s just not worth it. I hate the stilted and self-conscious goodbyes, the walk of shame back home … the aftermath outweighs any momentary pleasure. But to have had a one-night stand here, on this particular weekend; that was even worse. I could feel beads of sweat beginning to form at my temples, and I knew it was because I was just picturing what everyone else might be saying at this very moment. 

_That Betty! Hasn’t she changed! I would never have believed it from her of all people!_

So many exclamation marks. So much judgment. 

So much potential embarrassment. 

I carefully opened my eyes again. This time I took a proper look at my surroundings, and realised that while the room was identical to my own, the suitcase lying open on the luggage rack next to the TV definitely wasn’t mine. And the laptop and papers strewn across the desk certainly weren’t mine either. 

I could see my clutch and shoes lying haphazardly on the other side of the room near the door, clearly discarded the moment I’d had some privacy with my mystery man. My dress was pooled in a heap of black silk nearby. 

My underwear was nowhere in sight. 

Oh god, what had I done last night? Frantic liaisons with strange guys in anonymous hotel rooms were so out of character. 

In fact, not only were they out of character for me, they were straight out of the Las Vegas playbook. Yes, I was in Sin City for the weekend, but could I really have been that much of a stereotype? 

What a dumb question. Considering the guy obviously snoring next to me, clearly the answer was yes.

I needed to pull myself together. I had bigger things to focus on right now, such as getting out of here (wherever ‘here’ was) and making my way back to my own hotel room, hopefully sight unseen. 

I took a deep breath, bracing myself, before sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My stomach gave a woozy flip. 

Eurgh. 

I took another deep breath before standing up, and this time my stomach behaved itself. Maybe my body could sense the seriousness of the situation and the need to escape before having to engage in any weird small talk with Mystery Man. I could be revoltingly sick later - right now my priority was to retreat back to my own room.

I scurried to my dress, feeling like an awkward little (naked) mouse, and hastily threw it over my head, doing up the zip furtively so as not to wake up Mystery Man with too much noise. For a moment I thought about hunting for my missing bra and knickers, but I rejected the idea. They would just have to be casualties of the night. 

Tip-toeing to the door, I scooped up my bag and shoes. 

Curiosity got the better of me at this point. I mean, Veronica was naturally going to ask me for the juicy details (none of which I was remembering at this point in time) so I at least wanted to provide her with a proper description of Mystery Man. 

I wanted a proper description of Mystery Man. 

I turned around, hand on the door, ready to make a quick escape once I’d looked my fill. 

I couldn’t see much. Mystery Man was lying on his stomach, half-covered by sheets. But I could see that he had a narrow waist broadening into well-defined shoulders, his back lightly muscled but definitely not beefy. One arm was resting under his pillow, the other strewn across the bed, and I took a moment to admire his lean, toned bicep muscles. 

A guy’s arms were my weakness. I wasn’t quite sure why – maybe it was because toned arms just made me think of all the things a guy could do with them. The thought of him wrapping me up safely against his chest, snug with his body. One arm slung lightly across my shoulders, the hint of combined possession and protection in the way he held me. 

Strong arms picking me up so he could pin me against the wall. 

Despite the hangover I could feel my cheeks begin to flush at the thought and I hastily averted my gaze from those arms before I did something I’d no doubt regret later. 

He had a shock of thick dark hair, stark against the pure white of the pillow and sheets, but I couldn’t see his face properly. 

My heart sank a little in disappointment. 

Oh well. Maybe it was for the best. He could be a complete butterface, so at least this way I could keep the mystery. (I know, that’s very judgmental of me, but if you’re going to have an out-of-character one night stand with someone I think it’s reasonable to expect them to be attractive). 

He let out another drunken snore, and to my horror began to turn onto his back. 

Please don’t wake up. 

_Please_ don’t wake up. 

His eyes fluttered slightly, but to my relief he didn’t wake, merely shifting slightly against the pillow before settling down again. 

My heart constricted and my stomach felt like rebelling in way that was completely unrelated to my excessive imbibing of alcohol the night before. 

I knew that face. 

I recognised the straight nose, the full lips. Could picture the dark lashes, unfairly thick for a man, framing his disdainful green eyes. Knew what his voice was like, that deep velvet that coated words that were more often than not biting and sarcastic. 

It was Jughead Jones. 

I swallowed hard. This was so much worse than if I’d just ventured back to the hotel with a random stranger. 

Oh god, oh god, _oh god_. 

I hadn’t seen him in years, not since high school when he’d been the token outcast and I’d been the school Goody Two Shoes. I hadn’t even expected him to be here this weekend. 

The reality of whole situation pressed around me like a vice, and I knew I needed to get out of there. 

No longer caring about waking him up, I slammed the door forcefully closed after me. My heart was beating quickly and I felt the hot red of mortification blotchily rising over my face. 

Half running, shoes still in my hands, I reached the elevator and jabbed the button violently. I needed to get back to my room as soon as possible, where I could proceed to curl up on the bed and die of horror and shame. 

Because it just had to have been Jughead Jones out of everyone who was here this weekend. 

I could feel the anxiety rising like a tidal wave through me, and I knew I had to get a grip. _“You can’t always control what happens outside,”_ my therapist was fond of telling me, _“but you can control what happens inside. Focus on your breathing.”_

I took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled. And again. And again. 

Was this the slowest elevator in history? 

Another breath. 

Slowly perspective began to creep back in. If there was one thing I remembered about Jughead from high school, it was discretion. He hadn’t seemed like the type to brag back then, and hopefully he still wasn’t now. And maybe no-one had seen us leave together. 

Leave where? I thought to myself. Last night was such a horrible blank. 

Another breath. 

I’d leave those thoughts for later. Now was a time for calming down and retreating back to my room. 

Another breath. 

The gentle ding heralding the elevator’s arrival came as a welcome sound, and I noted with relief that there was no-one inside. I pressed the button for the tenth floor and leant back against the cool mirror of the elevator, taking another deep breath and exhaling. 

There. 

That was better. 

The loss of my underthings aside, at least I still had all my stuff. I awkwardly shifted my shoes into one hand and tried to flip the clasp of my clutch with the other, wanting to get to my phone. There was presumably going to be a barrage of calls and missed messages from Veronica and I really should let her know that I was safe / ask her how much I’d embarrassed myself last night. 

Something glittered cheerily on my hand as I wrestled with the clasp. 

I stopped instantly and stared at the pink cubic zirconia sparkling on my wedding finger, my heart sinking. 

Was that … ?

_Oh no._


	2. Chapter One

_A few months previously …_

_Betty_

“Prepare for every bachelorette party you’ve ever attended to be surpassed,” the invitation stated, and I could just imagine Cheryl’s drawl as I read the words. It had been awhile, but the superior tone I’d once known so well was still as clear as day. “Brace yourself for the ultimate in pre-wedding celebrations, bitches!”

Nothing could be less appealing then attending the wedding of Archie to someone who wasn’t me, but I knew I had to go. I was bigger than that. A better person than that. Of course I would attend the marriage of my first love to the woman who had, at one point in time, made my high school life absolute hell. We were all adults. It would be fine. Totally cool. I was A-OK with it. Really.

I was under no such compulsion to attend the bachelorette party. I’d gotten out of the engagement party thanks to a fortuitously-timed business trip, and I’d use my imagination to come up with a valid-sounding reason as to why I couldn’t go to Vegas in three months’ time for what would no doubt be an exercise in bachelorette torture masterminded by Cheryl.

At a wedding, a guest usually said all of about ten words to the lucky bride and groom before stepping aside to make room for the next guest to murmur their congratulations. See and be seen, that was all there was to it.

Bachelorette parties were a different matter altogether. At a bachelorette party, you were bonded together with the bride and her closest friends in a forced camaraderie born of too much tequila and penis-shaped straws. You had to listen to raunchy jokes and innuendo about the wedding night. Probably sit through a discussion about how many kids they were planning on having and when they’d start trying. Someone would give the bride tiny scraps of lace with a wink about what to pack on her honeymoon, and I would have to dig my nails deep into my palms to stop the bile rising at the thought that, in an ideal world, the blushing bride-to-be would have been me.

_I_ was supposed to have been marrying Archie.

They were supposed to have been making lewd jokes about _my_ honeymoon.

I felt hot tears prick at my eyes, and blinked them away impatiently. Part of me wasn’t sure what I was more upset about; that Archie was marrying someone else, or that the thought of it still had the power to affect me so much.

I mean, true, I often thought about him, but it wasn’t like I’d been sitting around for the past few years crying over him, locked in my apartment and self-medicating with wine and chocolate.

When we broke up in our second year of college I’d thought it would just be a break. Temporary. _I need to figure some things out,_ Archie had said. _I just need some space to work out who I am, you know?_

God, what a cliché.

Turned out that “figuring some things out” meant he wanted to screw a succession of random girls and then settle on Cheryl Blossom as Mrs Archie Andrews while I’d patiently waited for him to come back to me.

What an idiot I’d been.

“He’s not worth it, babe,” Kevin had consoled me over a bottle of tequila and a DVD of _Magic Mike_ when Archie and Cheryl had announced they were moving in together. “You’re worth ten of him.”

“He was never good enough for you,” Veronica had whispered into my shoulder as I’d sobbed my heart out on her lap when their engagement was announced. “There’ll be someone else out there for you.”

Well, it had been years since mine and Archie’s breakup and this mystical “someone else” had yet to appear. I’d had a few boyfriends since Archie, sure, but none were serious. As much as I hadn’t wanted to admit it, no-one had ever come close to making me feel the way I’d had when I’d been with Archie.

In the meantime, Kevin and Veronica had both had fun going through a string of gorgeous men until they’d found themselves in serious relationships with Matt (a fireman with abs of steel who had been Mr July in last year’s Riverdale Fire Service charity calendar) and Graham (a lawyer who could give as good as he got in Veronica’s favourite pastime of witty repartee) respectively.

I was pleased for Kevin and Veronica, I really was. I’d just like my own Matt or Graham.

I knew that this was all sounding a trifle pathetic. The truth was that sometimes I thought I’d spent most of my twenties pining over Archie and was only now beginning to show signs of turning a corner. I didn’t want to suffer a relapse at this late stage.

I looked down at the invitation again and traced the embossed writing with a fingertip. I could just picture the bachelorette party now and it wasn’t pleasant. Cheryl, the centre of attention. My closest friends from Riverdale all paired off and no doubt secretly envisioning the moment when they would be marrying their own perfect plus-ones. I couldn’t even rely on Polly to be there to keep me company; she’d be heavily pregnant with her third child by then, and in no state to travel to Nevada from Riverdale.

No, it would just be me, alone and awkward, the high school sweetheart still a little hung up on the one that got away.

I sighed and tucked the invitation away in my desk drawer. _Out of sight, out of mind_. 

The weeks passed and any thoughts of the engagement party slipped away in a flurry of deadlines and important work meetings.

I’d always wanted to work in publishing, and after a tough year of unpaid internships in New York City after college, one of them finally paid off. The hours were awful, the pay even worse, but I was working in one of the country’s most highly respected publishing houses. Being involved in a book from the very start of the process was hugely exciting, and I was slowly climbed my way up the corporate ladder.

But leaning in as a modern-day career woman meant hours of laboriously uploading contracts onto databases, sending out hundreds of proofs, attending every author event, responding to every query from an author or agent, reading every submission -  in short, slowly making myself indispensable. Most nights I came home exhausted and usually flopped into bed after a nutritious dinner of ramen noodles and little more than a hello to my roommate Sophie.

One short text from Veronica was all it took to cut through the daily grind and bring the idea of the bachelorette party crashing back: _I’ve RSVP’d to Cheryl’s bachelorette party on your behalf. x_

I stared at the text for a moment, not really computing. Finally I responded: _What?_

_I wrote: I’ve RSVP’d to Cheryl’s bachelorette party on your behalf. x_

_I can read, Ronnie. I really meant WHY?_

_Because you need to get over this whole thing and move on. It’s been years and it’s time you ripped the Band-Aid off. I think going will be good for you …_

_It won’t be good for me. Are you insane?_

_Maybe?_

I gritted my teeth. I knew that Kevin and Ronnie thought I needed to forget about Archie and move on. _I_ knew that I needed to forget about Archie and move on. But it wasn’t that easy – I’d been at my happiest when I was with Archie. He had made me feel safe and wanted and loved for maybe the first time in my life.

I wasn’t even sure why I was invited to Cheryl’s bachelorette party; sure, Polly and Jason were married so we were technically in-laws, but our relationship wasn’t exactly close. We very rarely saw one another. Plus she’d spent most of our time together in high school making catty comments about my thighs which wasn’t exactly conducive to a lasting friendship.

My phone chimed again.

_You haven’t had a break in ages. It’ll be fun! Think of all the naughty adventures we’d get up to in Vegas ;)_

Another chime.

_You might not know this, but I consider myself a bit of a loner. I tend to think of myself as a one-woman wolf pack. But when I arrived at Riverdale High and you gave me that school tour, I knew you were one of my own. And my wolf pack – it grew by one, so there were two of us in the wolf pack. I was alone first in the wolf pack and you joined in later._

I snorted. Another chime.

_Come with me and keep me company? The two of us wolves, running around the desert together in Las Vegas, looking for strippers and cocaine._

My lips began to twitch upwards in a smile despite myself.

Like all girls who’d once ruled high school, Veronica knew how to extract hidden shames and exploit them to their fullest potential. _The Hangover_ was my secret, low-brow pleasure, and Veronica was well aware of it. I felt my willpower wavering.

Why not?

What could be the worst that could happen?  

I picked up my phone again and texted back. _Okay. I’m in._

***

  _Jughead_

“Prepare for every bachelor party you’ve ever attended to be surpassed,” the invitation stated, and I grimaced. I’d recognise the distinctive tone of Cheryl Blossom anywhere, even in a bachelor party invitation.

Did Archie not have a best man? And even if he didn’t, why he couldn’t write his own bachelor party invite was a mystery. Was it that hard to put together a Facebook event invite and click on a bunch of names? Who sent out physical invitations anymore? Which – I sniffed the invitation suspiciously – shit, were they perfumed?

Did Archie also give Cheryl his male pride when he gave her an engagement ring? Seriously, what was this?

I wasn’t even sure how I’d merited an invite. Sure, Archie and I had patched things up after that awful summer, but things had never gone back to the way they were. As high school drifted to a close we’d drifted even further apart until the only thing we had in common was that we had once had something in common.

Archie had gone off to college in Chicago, something to do with music, whereas I’d stayed in Riverdale for two years working odd-jobs to save up some cash before going to NYU.

We saw each other during the summer, sometimes at Thanksgiving or Christmas too. Then FP got caught up in a drug sting and sent upstate to Greendale Penitentiary, and so there was even one less reason for me to bother coming to Riverdale during the college breaks. When your claim to fame was being the son of the local felon, the old hometown didn’t exactly welcome you back with open arms.

I’d received invitations to the engagement party and the wedding (what _was_ it with Cheryl, Archie and formal invitations? Did everything have to be a major event memorialised on expensive stationery?) and hadn’t bothered sending an RSVP to either one.

Yeah, that was probably rude of me.

But, in my defence, I was pretty sure the invitations had all been issued out of politeness and neither Cheryl nor Archie expected me to come. Cheryl was probably actively hoping that I didn’t - I couldn’t imagine that I fit into her grand visions of wedding splendour.

I twirled the invitation between my fingers, thinking.

My first impulse was to chuck it in the trash and send Archie a bottle of Patron in my stead. But a little niggle at the back of my mind stilled my hand. 

My editor, Dan, had been pestering me to branch out. “ _Don’t get me wrong, J_ ,” he’d written in a one of his usual short-and-sweet emails. “ _Your exposés are great. You’re gonna win a Pultizer for us one day. But in the meantime, readers = $._ ”

In other words: stop writing so many cost-ineffective longform articles and start writing more clickbait.

When it came to expansively researched, serious pieces with something to say, I was your man. I was starting to make a name for myself at _The New York Chronicle_ for my investigative journalism and articles that championed the little guy; that took a harder look at big business or cast a spotlight on the life of the faceless employee at the bottom of the food chain. I’d spent eighteen months delving into the dealings of a private security company and its murky relationship with certain US government departments; the best part of a year looking at lobby groups devoted to challenging climate change and coincidentally sponsored by international oil companies; yet more months living in a podunk little town out in New Mexico investigating a corrupt mayor. 

More lighthearted articles weren’t my thing. If you were looking for my byline on a Buzzfeed-style list of how your choice in breakfast products predicted your age, you were going to be sorely disappointed.

I knew Dan wasn’t expecting – or wanting – me to head in that direction. But he was keen for me to diversify and supplement my investigative pieces with the occasional editorial piece, and I suspected why. _The New York Chronicle_ was losing subscribers daily, and with the release of each annual financial report came another round of cost-cutting measures. These varied in scope but always included some sort of employee cull, and I knew that while my articles contributed to the cachet of the newspaper and increased the visibility of its brand, they were also costly to commission.

I did not want my head to be on the chopping block when the next edition of the _Chronicle_ Hunger Games rolled around.

I needed to show that I was an integral part of the _Chronicle_ and that readers were interested in what I had to say no matter the length of the article; that they’d see my name underneath a headline and know that I was someone to trust. That I had a diverse set of skills and would be an asset to the _Chronicle_.  

Perhaps an invitation to a bachelor party was just what I needed; the chances of it providing fertile satirical ground for an editorial piece were high. I mean, the invitation was scented for fuck’s sake.

Not that I wanted to use Archie’s life as a mockery piece. Distant friend or not, I wouldn’t do that to him. But it could perhaps provide the perfect starting point for something, and I was in desperate need of inspiration.  

Maybe I could bring myself to write some sort of snappy editorial. Just one. Enough to get Dan off my back so I could focus on the stories that really mattered.

Lose the battle, win the war, as they say.

Decision made. Before I could talk myself out of it, I sent a tersely worded RSVP email to [cheryl_archie_truelove@gmail.com](mailto:cheryl_archie_truelove@gmail.com) .

Done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your comments on the previous chapter, always appreciated. x


	3. Chapter Two

So after that initial wolf pack bonding moment, I changed my mind several times about going to Las Vegas for the bachelorette party. 

I’m not really an indecisive person, but the thought of listening to Cheryl discuss her hopes and dreams for her marital life with Archie filled me with a horrible ache. As a result, I’d been quite happy having a pity-party of one and resolutely telling myself that under no circumstances would I be dragged to Vegas.

Of course, I’d reckoned without Veronica. 

“Betty Cooper,” she’d told me sternly when I’d finally admitted that I really had no intention of going and so she should stop sending me links to coordinating bikini sets. “I’ve never known you for a coward. What happened to strippers and cocaine in Las Vegas?” 

I’d snorted in a very unladylike way that would have given my mom an aneurysm had she heard it. “Veronica, running away from a fight would make me a coward. Letting someone else take the blame for something I’d done would make me a coward. Not wanting to go to Cheryl’s bachelorette party in Las Vegas does not make me a coward.” 

“But it’ll be fun,” she’d wheedled, “Sun, mimosas, dancing …” 

“All good things,” I’d admitted, “but tempered by the presence of Cheryl. Don’t you think it’s bizarre that I was even invited? I’m Archie’s ex. Who even does that?” 

I’d continued to give this a lot of thought and the longer I’d pondered on it, the more I became convinced that there had to be more to my invite than met the eye. It would have to be one very confident woman to invite her fiancé’s ex-girlfriend to her bachelorette party. Cheryl was planning something.

“It’s Cheryl,” Veronica had said, as if that answered everything. “And you guys are kind of friends.” 

I wouldn’t go that far. I was polite when I saw her which, honestly, was only once every few years. Because that was the nice thing to do, and Betty Cooper was nothing if not nice. Plus, I had to pretend we were one big happy family if only to make Polly happy.

“Forget about why, and just look at it as a weekend away with your best friend, i.e. me,” she’d continued. “If you’re not there, then who would I hang out with? Kevin can’t come and I wouldn’t want to room with anyone else.” 

After two weeks of Veronica sending me daily updates of what the weather was like in Vegas, pictures of super cute bikinis, tempting cocktail recipes, and downright begging, I caved. 

What can I say? I just wasn’t that strong.

Now here we were in our luxurious suite at Caesar’s Palace (Veronica’s version of “rooming”) and Veronica was meticulously planning out her outfit for the night by spreading sartorial options on her bed. For a moment I had a weird moment of deja-vu and of us doing this back in high school. 

“Do you think the Sophia Webster heels are too much? They’re glittery and my dress is metallic, so I don’t know if together it’s too much bling. Less is more. But it’s Las Vegas, so perhaps more is more.” 

Veronica stood back and looked critically at what she’d set out. Her mouth tightened slightly. “Betty. I need your input.”

“This is Cheryl Blossom’s bachelorette party,” I pointed out. “I’m not sure subtlety is what’s required here.” 

I’d been lounging on her feather-soft bed, but as Veronica had called on my best friend skills I felt obliged to sit up and take a closer look at what she’d been planning on wearing. 

The dress was an iridescent green with flecks of gold that caught the light and sparkled. The hem was reasonably modest, looking like it would hit Veronica just above the knee, but the top was fitted with a deep neckline. And when I said deep, I meant plunging. 

Her shoes were a confection of shimmery gold with a stiletto heel and both the shoes and dress oozed money. Together they probably cost as much as my rent. 

“You’re going to look amazing,” I said honestly. “And it’s definitely not too much. You’re going to make a lot of heads turn tonight.” 

Veronica flushed happily. “Well, if Betty Cooper has given me her tick of approval then I’m happy.” 

“It’s more than a tick of approval. More like a gold star.” 

“A gold star? Now that’s strong praise coming from the teacher’s pet, Betty Cooper,” laughed Veronica, and I rolled my eyes at her. Mentions of being a teacher’s pet never failed to make my hackles rise.

“Stop it. I wasn’t a teacher’s pet at school.” 

“I beg to differ, Miss I-Do-Every-Extracurricular-Known-To-Man. But now that I’m sorted, let’s move on to the main event.” She looked at me purposefully and raised her eyebrow. 

I shifted uncomfortably. “If by main event, you mean my outfit …” 

“ _Of course_ I mean your outfit, Betty. You’re about to be in the same room as your high-school nemesis and the fiancée of the guy you still think you’re in love with. Most girls would have agonised for ages over the thought of what to wear when meeting just one of those two. When you’re meeting a woman who is both …” She trailed off meaningfully. 

“You know I don’t place as much emphasis on clothes as you,” I protested. Normally a true statement, but in this case it was actually a complete and utter lie - I’d spent approximately ten thousand hours online shopping for clothes for this bachelorette weekend. 

“Liar.”

“Okay, yes. I spent a little bit of time thinking of what to wear.” It wasn’t my weekend and I didn’t want to upstage Cheryl. I wasn’t that petty. But I also didn’t want to look like the dowdy ex-girlfriend.

I’d finally settled on a classic black dress that had cost a fair chunk of my food budget for the month; it tastefully skimmed my curves and clung in all the right places, but it still left a bit to the imagination. I’d allowed some playfulness by pairing it with some silver heeled sandals and matching jewellery, but it was exactly what I needed tonight. The excellent tailoring made me feel sexy and confident but I wasn’t dressing as someone I wasn’t. 

I pulled it out of the cupboard where I’d carefully hung it earlier and displayed it a little bashfully to Veronica; next to her overtly sexy dress it seemed a little forlorn.

If Veronica had doubts she didn’t show them. “Ooh, I love it,” she said earnestly, reaching out to stroke the silk. “You’re going to look hot.” 

“I was going more for elegant, but hot is good too.” 

“You’re always elegant, Betty.” Veronica looked at me seriously. “But tonight you can rest assured that you’re going to give Cheryl a run for her money.” 

I could feel a flush rising in my cheeks and I looked away to try and hide how much her words pleased me. I know that I just said that I wasn’t that petty, but hey. I’m only human. 

***

Veronica and I got ready in a leisurely fashion thanks to a few judicious glasses of champagne, so other than Cheryl we were the last ones to arrive at the designated meeting place in the hotel’s lobby that evening. 

I was quickly surrounded by a sea of familiar faces. I went back to Riverdale fairly often and made an effort to stay in touch with everyone, but with competing commitments it was never possible to catch up in a big group. As I hugged Tina and exchanged greetings with Ginger, a bubble of excited chatter rose around me and I relaxed a little. 

This was nice. This was maybe even fun.

How bad could this be? 

“So, I hope you girls are ready for a weekend to never forget.” Cheryl’s voice held an ominous tone, and it immediately silenced the group. I turned slowly to face her.

Cheryl was resplendent in a floor-length white gown with a matching crown made out of white gardenias. Her hair was the copper red of blood and she still kept it in the same long style she had as a teenager. The effect was striking, and I couldn’t look away. 

Her face was oddly serious and for a moment our eyes met. My stomach clenched and I was suddenly cast back to high school, when I was perpetually in a strange state of simultaneously being terrified of Cheryl and her cutting remarks and yet also desperately wanting her to like me. 

I thought I’d long since grown out of any insecurity she’d made me feel. But one look at her in a white gown brought back a lingering, pesky feeling of inadequacy. 

“So, I’m all in white and you’re my opposite, all in black,” she said at last. “Cute.” 

She gave me one last, searching look before her gaze widened to take in the whole group. “Prepare yourselves, ladies. My send off as a single woman is going to be epic. You will be talking of this for months, if not _years_. I feel sorry for those of you that aren’t engaged yet and who will have to follow in my footsteps. I hate to tell you, but whatever you come up with for your own bachelorette party will only ever be a pale imitation of this weekend.” 

I caught Veronica’s eye and tried not to laugh. Cheryl could be so ridiculous. 

“Everything tonight has been planned out to the tiniest detail.” She flipped back an errant lock of hair and regarded us all with a look that promised dire retribution to anyone that caused even that tiniest detail to go awry. 

There was an awkward silence as everyone digested the implicit threat behind her words but in true Cheryl fashion, she was mercurial and just as I thought the silence would stretch on forever, she clapped her hands and her face broke into a grin.

“But first things first – aperitifs! We have a booth at Chez Miramar set aside for us so we can see the sun set over the Strip while we have a bellini or two.” 

“I could do with a champagne cocktail,” Veronica muttered, falling into step beside me as we followed Cheryl out the door like faithful ducklings. “It’s like Cheryl has regressed back to high school – I’m feeling like a River Vixen again.” 

“I think she’s just nervous,” Ginger chimed in from behind us.

“Nervous?” I queried. “Since when did Cheryl suffer from any form of self-doubt?” 

Ginger looked at me condescendingly, her brown eyes as deep and searching as ever but now fanned by a few faint lines. “Come on, Betty. You always did bring out the worst in her.” 

I felt myself become defensive. “Since when?” 

“Since always. Why do you think she never let you be a River Vixen for so long? She was always terrified you’d overshadow her.” 

“Maybe,” said Veronica slowly. Her forehead was furrowed slightly, as if she were deep in thought. She didn’t say anything else but as we squeezed into one of the most ostentatious limousines I’d ever seen I saw her looking at Cheryl thoughtfully. 

Midge was seated on my other side, and I seized the opportunity to catch up. 

“How’s Moose?” I said, as Midge passed around some champagne flutes. I made a mental note to slow down the drinking a little; perhaps Veronica and I shouldn’t have opened a bottle before we came down to the lobby. 

“Amazing!” She said. An unsurprising answer. Moose never could do anything wrong in Midge’s eyes. “But you can ask him yourself - you’ll be seeing him soon!” 

“At the wedding? Yeah, of course. I’d love to know how everything’s going with the ... uh, new landscaping business,” I said politely, scrambling to remember what it was Moose did. 

“No, silly! Tonight!” 

I must have looked confused, because Midge took pity on me and explained further. “Didn’t anyone tell you that Archie’s having his bachelor party here this weekend too? I think the plan is to eventually all meet up at a club.” 

My heart sank. 

“No,” I said, my eyes narrowing at Veronica across the limousine. She was blithely tossing back a glass of champagne while she chatted to Ginger. What a sly cow. “No one mentioned that to me.” 

“Oh. Well, never mind! I bet it’s come as a nice surprise, right? It must have been ages since you’ve seen Archie! The two of you can catch up properly, and you can speak to Moose, and Reggie will be there too …” 

I tuned Midge out. 

Oh my god. Why hadn’t Veronica told me? I felt the beginning of a migraine creeping up behind my temples. 

I’d taken great care over the past few years not to interact with Archie. I could deal with Cheryl; she hadn’t been the one to break my heart, after all. But Archie was the one who had torn it out and stomped all over it, and I didn’t think I could ever forgive him for that. I hadn’t seen him properly in years; any fleeting view of him in Riverdale had sent me instantly turning the other way. I even stayed with Polly and Jason on trips back to Riverdale rather than with my parents so as to avoid any awkward neighbourhood run-ins. 

I don’t think I’d had a proper conversation with him since The Break-Up Conversation. 

At least I was wearing a nice dress tonight, but this wasn’t how I wanted our first proper meeting in years to go. I’d wanted time to build up to it, to rehearse it in my head and to gather my courage. 

Not for it to have been thrust on me with no warning whatsoever. 

Forget about all Veronica’s notions of Band-Aids and ripping things off quickly; I wanted to do this at my own pace. No, I _needed_ to do this at my own pace, even if that was a snail’s pace.

My palms were tingling and it took all my fortitude to remember the breathing tips my therapist had taught me. I hadn’t been tempted do that in years. 

“Here you are!” Midge interrupted my thoughts, shoving something in front of me. I took it reflexively and looked down to see what it was she’d passed me. 

It was a penis straw. 

“For the champagne,” Midge explained. 

“Oh,” I stuttered. “Right.”

Penis straws. My worst bachelorette nightmare had begun. 

I cast the straw aside and downed my champagne in one go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler chapter, I'm afraid, but the pace will pick up again soon! 
> 
> As always, thanks for your amazing comments and feedback. x

**Author's Note:**

> Just a fun little play on the old "Married in Vegas" trope. Let me know your thoughts! x


End file.
